Dinner 9/18 International Food Co-op in Laughlin Hall Dinner 9/20 Fried Rice (Cao Fan) Taiwanese Fried Chicken (Yan Su Ji) Marinated Pork Ribs (Hong Shao Pai Gu)
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Today I felt as if I came out of my last class just beaming. My freshman seminar, Photography and Literature, was absolutely intriguing. Three hours went by as if they were three minutes. Around seven other people are in this seminar with me, the professor is new, and this is the first time that this class has been listed. Somehow, all of these things combined to create a class that is refreshing; it just feels there are little bits of passion or newness, and maybe just a slight hint of something strikingly fresh—like when you get that after-taste of citrus when drinking freshly squeezed, maybe-a-little-too-sour lemonade. I’m not really sure how to describe it, but I loved it. Before class this week, the professor asked us to read Barthes’ Camera Lucida, which is a collection of musings on photography, mostly regarding theory, purpose, and essence in photography as a medium. When I first read this book, I probably only understood an optimistic half of it—this guy is really dense and philosophical, I guess. After discussion in class, I felt a little clearer. We spoke mostly about Barthes’ claim that photography, as a medium in itself, is actually quite useless. He claims that photography is just about the only “art” form in which the medium is nothing without its referent, or object/person. In painting, drawing, sculpting, etc., every stroke, shape and texture is purposeful and is meaningful. In photography, no such equivalent exists. Even the angle of the photograph and other “artistic” methods are only in relation to the referent. The photograph itself is a flat piece of paper. Then, Barthes argues that, in a way, even the referent itself is not meaningful in itself. The picture is merely a record of “what has been,” merely evidence of something that was there. This is where I became interested: The only thing that gives a photograph value is the value it creates in you. In other words, the photo, as a medium, is always contingent, always depending on the relationship it has with the observer, or spectator. Sure, this may be true for all “art,” but other art seems to have so many extraneous factors, so many complications, so many ways that the medium itself has meaning that change this simple relationship set forward by photography: the referent, the observer, and the medium which relies completely on both parties being present. I now realize that this mirrors so much in our own lives, in our daily living. So many times we are focused on how, or we get caught up with the little things that come along with that how. There are a million distractors—things that are pretty, intricate, and so aesthetically pleasing that somehow the two ends of the relationship become less important: in Barthes’ terms, the spectator and the referent, but in our terms, us and our living, our saints, and our Lord. Since when is our living about anything but this pure relationship? Since when is it about how we “paint” it, how we make it look, how nice and intricate our proposed medium is? We have a beautiful relationship because of the relationship, not because we create a medium that looks to be more beautiful than the two ends for which it was made. Our medium is our spirit, our connection to the only end that matters. And for that matter, our spirit is actually contingent on both sides . . . We have to be willing to release our spirit and the Lord receives our spirit (actually, that is all we can offer). A healthy spirit requires a complete subduing and a complete purity; every other part we think will help this medium, this connection is actually just superfluous and clouds the relationship. Looking even further, we see that not only is the means contingent upon the sources, but that the sources are contingent upon the means as well. In this symbiotic relationship lies the beauty that is our spiritual connection; the Lord gave us a singular way to be one with Him, just as the seemingly ordinary piece of paper we call a photograph is the only way we could ever be touched by the referent in the picture. In this thinking, Barthes has it correct. The most beautiful relationship—what makes photography a beautiful medium and what makes our spirit the most beautiful medium—is that which is pure, singular, and completely dependent on each end and the connection between them. Lord, we have a spirit! How beautiful. It’s that time again: the U.S. Open. It seemed like yesterday that my family and I crouched over our small television set watching Roger Federer as he beat Andre Agassi for the first time—I was only in 6th grade at the time. In the background, I would hear my mother screaming as Agassi lost a crucial point. I, of course, was rooting for the green Federer—the low-seeded nobody, the one who wanted to steal all the glory from Agassi as he attempted to make history. I didn’t know much about tennis nor did I imagine that I would be playing tennis in the future. All I knew was that tennis was a family ordeal. I used to get all frustrated because our television set refused to work when I really wanted it to. My sister would be screaming at me: “Sam, go hit the TV!” or “Dude, move the antenna!” The air was always tense and nervous as we waited for the image to focus. On the most crucial points, it would decide to blur and buzz in and out as if it has a mind of its own. I used to place the antennae in all kinds of weird places; sometimes, it would be against the wall—other times, it was on the floor, upside down. Year after year, we would move the antenna back and forth. And year after year, I fell in love with the game of tennis. My dad asked me if I wanted to play tennis when I was in 8th grade. He presented me a few rackets to choose from and asked me if I wanted to learn. I remember the first racket: a HEAD radical oversize, a perfect racket for the beginner who could not hit the ball for his life. We would “hit,” as tennis players call it, every day after school—my dad would constantly encourage and guide me to work on consistency. Truthfully, he didn’t know much about tennis—only what he read from online tutorials and Youtube videos. But he was always there in these times, willing to learn for himself first and then share his newfound knowledge and skill with me. This was my dad, a man of many skills and talents—a man of passion, dedication, and motivation. He didn’t have much, but he was willing to give it all for me—all for his son who he loved dearly. Then one day, my dad introduced me to another formidable opponent: the wall. I remember always feeling bewildered and even frustrated at my dad. Why hit against a wall when you can hit against someone else? With much muttering and complaining, I would hit. It was harder than I thought it would be. One ball, two balls, three . . . over the wall. Tennis wasn’t going to be so easy. I spent that summer playing with my dad. We eventually migrated from the small courts of my junior high to the big courts of the high school I was set to study at. Being a shy and timid junior high schooler, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to “play” tennis. And my dad soon discovered he really couldn’t teach me tennis. We couldn’t afford private lessons either. But he was determined. If I was to learn, I was to learn from the people who knew how to play. My dad would drive me to the tennis courts every day after school and he would ask people to play with me. He would ask people if they could teach me. He would ask students if they would be my friend so I could learn the proper way to play. Sometimes, we were at the courts for more than four hours; my dad just sat there on the hard cement courts watching me. Every day he would sit there. And just like that, time passed and Federer won slam after slam, major after major. But during my summers, my dad continued sitting on those hard cement courts, watching me, observing me, encouraging me, supporting me. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like I turned out to be a great tennis player or a great athlete. It’s not like I’m saying these are mandatory items on a “to do” list for becoming a better player. I just know that I owe a lot to my dad. And I owe him much more than just my skills in tennis. I begged my dad today to come play tennis with me. On Lord’s Day, I will be going back to my life in Princeton. My mom wanted to spend some time with me so she suggested that we go to the local gym. It has been a long time since my dad last played tennis with me. More than two years since my dad last touched a tennis racket. And when I asked him for the second time, I saw his face change; it reminded me of all those hours he sacrificed for me to play tennis. It reminded me of how much my father truly loved me. He jumped up and said, “Let’s go.” While we played, I could tell that time has truly flown by. The once young and sprite feet of my dad were now aching at every strike of the ball. He would groan when he picked up the ball or when he ran. My dad was slower than he was, less flexible and awkward on the court—not the dad who once taught me how to play tennis, who instructed me on how to hit the ball, who showed me how to do things right. After about an hour, I told my dad that we should go home. He should take a break. I knew he was tired. I knew at every point, he was fighting for the energy to keep up with a still growing up son. I grabbed a ball and I met my old brick-faced opponent. In the corner of my eye, I saw my dad plop himself down on the hard cement floor. And just like those high school days and those many hours of watching me grow up, my dad was watching me once more, patiently waiting, silently supporting me in my every pursuit. I struck the ball back and forth, back and forth until I grew tired. At every strike, I kept looking back at my dad. This was how I grew up. This was my dad. This was my family. It is hard to put my feelings into words, but I can’t help but feel grateful, blessed, and extremely thankful for the parents I have. A man walked passed my dad and asked him, “Can you hit like your son? He’s pretty good.” My dad was silently crying, remembering the moments of my childhood, remembering the long process he and my mom endured, waiting for me to awaken, to grow up. I later overheard my dad talking to my mom. He was praising me: “Sam plays very well. Very, very well.” Federer made it to another U.S. Open quarterfinal. He is playing better than he has played in a long time. He is on a road to redemption. Tennis is something new to me today. Watching my dad from the corner of my eye and listening to him shed tears for his son brought me back to the purity and simplicity of our human lives. Our lives fade and we get old so quickly. Things become blurry. Our thoughts become so complicated. Today, I was reminded again of my childhood, my upbringing, and my family’s humble beginnings in the United States. I was reminded again of my love for my father, for my mother, and for my sister. I was reminded again of the sacrifices, the pains, and the sufferings of my dad in raising me to become who I am today. I owe him a lot. I owe them my life. I’m rooting for Federer. Just like the old days. But this time, I think I’m at least a little bit changed. -Samuel C |
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September 2014
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